Paper Convulsions
by Zaedah
Summary: Figures sprawled on the page like drunken stickmen doing yoga.


**Paper Convulsions**

Between the book covers lay a personal confessional, Alan Eppes had explained this morning. Apparently, the majority of the population has attempted journaling at some point in their lives. And apparently, his father has decided it would somehow remedy the toll of his hectic CalSci/FBI schedule. A creative outlet, a therapeutic exercise, Charlie was informed with a strangely salesman-esque exuberance. There was a nagging suspicion that the elder Eppes was secretly planning to read the journal later. But if he was looking for juicy details, he should have encouraged Don to write instead.

Of course, his father was less than thrilled when Charlie returned moments ago armed with statistics showing that most of said population discontinue the practice long before they reach the back cover. Since it is frequently a conflict that prompts the committing of thoughts to paper, once the event has passed (depression, break-ups, high school), the need for lengthy self-discovery often ends. And the fact that Alan reluctantly admitted to not keeping one for more than 6 concurrent days helped Charlie's case. His father looked rather dismayed that Charlie had come up with data to support ignoring the suggestion. But not entirely surprised.

Charlie's always quick with the numbers, if not the human compulsions behind them.

In truth, Charlie didn't need the statistics to tell him the wasted venture journaling was for him. The data was correct, and he was part of those very numbers.

Many years ago, a professor had recommended that Charlie keep a diary as a tool for learning control and release of the chaotic and random thoughts swirling in his mind. He had scoffed, as would any self-respecting boy of 13. Diaries, with their microscopic padlocks and fluffy Hello Kitty pens, were hardly suitable for a serious prodigy. As though prepared for the 'diaries are for girls' reaction, the teacher had handed Charlie a black and white composition notebook; nondescript, anonymous personified and indistinguishable among his school binders. Still, Charlie had shrugged at the request that he utilize the 'tool' that night.

Concession made, teenaged Charlie took the book home and bent back the tough binding so the book would remain open on the first blank sheet. He stared and it stared back. As though the entry would write itself. He gave much consideration, two hours worth, to beginning page one. He'd actually written 'Dear Diary' at the top of the lines paper with his decided un-pink, non-fuzzy pen before crossing it out with a series of measured horizontal lines. Foregoing an addressee was more logical. Another hour was passed deeming a worthy topic. The trouble with a chaotic mind was trying to simmer it down and reduce the boiling pot to one subject. He'd been a verbal rambler from the moment language first opened his mouth to the world.

Charlie had opted to start with the giver of the book and designate a purpose statement on that very first page. And the ink had flowed swiftly.

The prior procrastination retreated, leaving his random thoughts to abruptly constrict into one direction of focus, much like when he worked a math problem. Three more hours and a missed dinner saw a dozen pages burning in the wake of a furious scribble. Only his father yelling 'light's out' warning brought the tip of Charlie's pen off the paper. And he flipped through the evidence of his effort to gauge the result.

Numbers.

After the initial sentence, words had unknowingly ceased. What he found was page after page of equations. There were solutions to no less than three complicated theories in there, figures sprawled on the page like drunken stickmen doing yoga. So wrinkled with smeared ink, it looked as thought the paper had convulsed. Charlie wondered what the professor would make of it, himself equally concerned and comforted by what this failed attempt said about him. That night, the book had been tossed into the fireplace, fueling the heat and his father's questions about why a notebook deserved to die. Charlie had merely shrugged.

If one cannot successfully express oneself in written words, why make a forest of trees pay for his shortcoming? That's why he loved blackboards, after all. In the temporary lifespan of his equations, he can scribble and erase in moments. Who needed a permanent record of his personal chaos?

While Alan currently grumbled about convenient statistics and kids not listening to their elders' sage wisdom, a grown-up Charlie was still shrugging.


End file.
